This Thing Called Love
by HardlyFatal
Summary: Sansa's never met a man like Sandor before. He effortlessly demolishes all the walls around her inhibitions, heart, and sanity, making her behave in ways she never would have dreamed. If they can manage to smuggle her out of King's Landing, and away from her fiancé Joffrey, they might actually have a fighting change at a relationship. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

Sometimes, Sansa wondered if there were something magical about Sandor, some mystical force that bypassed her entire lifetime of experiences and thoughts and feelings and preferences and all rational thought to send a message directly to her lizard brain that said, _forget everything you thought you wanted in a man._

There was no other way she could think of to describe how she'd left her family in the North to join her fiancé, the golden Joffrey Baratheon, in King's Landing… then taken one look at his unusually large, horribly scarred bodyguard and disregarded almost everything else. Something inside her had exploded into full, quivering life the first time she'd heard that rasping rumble of a voice of his.

She was sure it had quite a lot to do with Sandor's body. In her measured opinion, it was the stuff of dreams. Not a maiden's dreams, no; those were of delicately modeled cheekbones and golden curls and nonthreatening androgyny. Those pristine dreams had melted like dew beneath the noontime sun after being initiated to womanhood by some tragically bad sex with Joffrey.

She wondered how she'd been so incredibly wrong about the Lannister scion. Wealthy and handsome, he'd seemed so good on paper. In reality, however…

A few days after Sansa's lackluster devirginization, she crept down to the kitchen to see if she could find something to put in her mouth that wouldn't make her feel sad and kind of gross. She was hopeful of chocolate, but would settle for something spicy.

Sandor was in the kitchen, cooking chicken molé like a damned pro chef, his huge hands deft as they chopped a bushel of poblanos and measured out tablespoons of cocoa. Sansa suspected the prospect of chocolate AND spice got all weirdly conflated in her head, associating their delectable selves with Sandor. Or maybe it was the contrast between 'tall, superbly-built hyper-masculine dude with loads of manly stubble doing something requiring delicacy' that got her.

Because at that moment she was nearly bowled over by a wave of desire, and choked on her tongue.

Predictably, he didn't rush over to her with exclamations of alarm; he didn't even ask her if she needed help. He just watched her with his usual "you're so stupid" expression as she gasped and hacked her way toward clear bronchial tubes once more.

"I'm fine, thanks!" Sansa wheezed with passive-aggressive cheerfulness, when she was able to speak again.

He continued to ignore her, but she was positive one corner of his mouth— the unscarred side, which looked unfairly soft and pink and supple— curled in amusement. Needing no further encouragement, she hopped up to sit on the counter right by where he was preparing the molé.

"You know your own business," he began in that bass rumble that made at least three parts of her body perk up in attention, "but you just sat your ass down on where I chopped the peppers, and that skirt's kind of short. So unless you want capsaicin burns on your cooch, you might like to take it elsewhere."

Sansa gaped at him. " _Cooch_?" she screeched, even as she scrambled down from the counter, trying to surreptitiously glance over her shoulder to see if the back of her skirt were besmirched by chili pepper innards.

He shrugged a massive shoulder and used the hatchet-sized cleaver to scoop up poblano slices and deposit them in an iron cauldron that would have been more at home over an open fire in a witch's lair.

"It was the least offensive name I could think of for it."

" _Cooch_ was?" Dear god, where had the man grown up, if _that_ were the mildest euphemism for a woman's… area… he could come up with? "How about 'private parts'? 'Lady bits'?"

She wracked her brains to remember the terms she'd overheard her schoolmates giggling about, back home in Winterfell, but everything that came to mind was either merely revolting ('hot pocket') or utterly nauseating ("bearded clam"). Still, she mentally groped for something— anything— better than _cooch_.

"…vajayjay?" she finished lamely.

His mouth curled again, and this time his eyebrow lifted. "Do you really see me saying that?"

Sansa slumped. "Well, no," she admitted. "But maybe—"

"Listen," Sandor interrupted, "here's the complete list of names I'm aware of for it. _Cooch, cunt, gash, quim_ , and _pussy_. If you want to get technical—"

"By all means, please let us get technical," Sansa muttered, sullen.

"—then _vagina_ and _vulva_. Other than that, I got nothing."

"My brothers are fond of the term _punane_ ," she countered, "and that's not too awful."

Sandor looked thoughtful. "No," he allowed, "that's not too awful." Then he leered at her. "And what do _you_ call it, princess?"

"The women in my family always refer to it as a _muffin_ ," she replied loftily. "And before you make fun of that, you should know that my mother got it from an Aerosmith song, and Aerosmith is cool, so there."

He didn't reply, just kept dumping ingredients into the cauldron. Sansa didn't like the idea that he was ignoring her.

" _Quim_ isn't too bad," she allowed, feeling bold.

"I've always enjoyed it," he said agreeably.

"I meant the word, not the… part itself."

"I've always enjoyed both."

She averted her gaze to stare out the window, feeling a blush creep up her throat. "I wouldn't know," she said faintly.

"You ain't seen nothing 'til you're down on a muffin, then you're sure to be a-changing ways," he sang under his breath in a pleasing baritone, his attention on shredding cooked chicken. Then he shot her a grin from under his surprisingly thick eyelashes, and suddenly Sansa was a lot more aware of _her_ muffin, because it gave a good hard throb at the sight. "Don't knock it until you've tried it."

"I feel pretty comfortable knocking it, actually, because I'll never be trying it."

Sandor _tsk_ ed softly. "Never took you to be close-minded." He dumped the chicken in the cauldron, then gave its contents a stir and clapped a lid the size of a manhole cover on it with a loud clang that made Sansa jump.

"I'm not close-minded," she retorted hotly. "I'm just really sure I'll never… go in that direction, since I'm—"

"You're what?" He washed his hands, then rubbed them dry with a dishtowel. Sansa had only known him a few days, and already she'd had way too many inappropriate thoughts about those hands, and how they and their long, strong fingers might feel on her.

And _in_ her.

 _Oh, god._

"Since I'm really attracted to men," she finished, a little breathless. It was probably intensely stupid for her to take it this far, but some wild hare wouldn't let her take the easy road. "The more masculine, the better."

He tossed the dishtowel in the direction of the sink and leaned his hip against the counter, crossing his arms (tanned, brawny, dusted with dark hair) across his chest (as yet unseen, but likely to be more of the same).

"That right?" His voice was a subterranean rumble. "And you're stuck with Joffrey? Talk about barking up the wrong tree."

"Mistakes were made," Sansa agreed glumly. She crossed her own arms and stared down at them, wondering how she could extract herself out of this particular pickle. When the silence stretched a bit too long, she glanced up to find him eying her arms, or rather, what they were crossed over, with singular interest.

Her first impulse was to huff and drop her arms, but she'd come this far already; what was one more sin? So she just stood there, letting him stare his fill at her plumped-up cleavage. When he finally lifted his gaze to hers, and saw her watching him in full knowledge of what he'd been up to, he looked a bit sheepish at first, but then shot her an impish little grin that had her heart flipping end-over-end.

 _Holy shit._ Maybe it was for the best, that Sandor had been so terribly scarred, because she didn't think the female populace of Westeros could withstand a Sandor that was built like a god, mischievously flirty, _and_ aesthetically flawless. If both sides of his face had been somewhat handsome, instead of one half somewhat handsome and the other destroyed, there'd have been riots in the streets.

"I have to get out of here," she muttered, looking around somewhat wildly, as if just freed from a prison cell and uncertain how to make a break for it.

"Oookay." Sandor shot her a wary glance. It was clear he thought her mood swings quite mad. He was probably right. Sansa felt her grasp on sanity slipping with each day spent in King's Landing.

"I'm going to need some of that spicy chocolate chicken glop, when it's done," she informed him. "It's urgent."

"You're lucky I'm here to fulfill your… pressing Mexican food needs," was his caustic reply, "since in no way did I make it for you. Need anything else? How're you fixed for socks and underwear? I can pick you up some at KingMart."

Sansa paused in her hasty exit, holding onto the door frame to keep from launching herself across the kitchen at him. How was he sexier the more sarcastic he got? She felt a burning desire to make him as aware of her as she was of him.

So she gave him a slow, queenly nod. "I'd appreciate that, actually. The socks should preferably be thigh-highs, and for the panties…" she turned to leave, but glanced back over her shoulder. "I only wear lace. _Pastel_ lace."

She had a split second to acknowledge the stupefaction on his face before she scurried away, hand over her mouth to keep from giggling like a maniac. Once safely in her suite of rooms, she locked the door, changed into a nightgown and fell into bed to contemplate her imminent mental breakdown.

 _I have to end it with Joffrey,_ she thought, _but how?_ She didn't want to make things awkward with her father and his friendship with Robert Baratheon, but neither could she resign herself to the rest of her life with someone who treated her like poop, and for whom she felt zero tender emotions or physical attraction.

Sandor might be sex on two (long, muscled) legs, but he was more a symptom than a cause of her unrest in this situation. If she'd been truly happy with the prospect of marrying Joffrey, she'd never have looked twice (and thrice, and then a few dozen more times after that) at his bodyguard.

Sansa sighed. Tomorrow, she'd break her engagement to Joffrey. The prospect made her feel light and hopeful in a way she hadn't for weeks. The only damper was how, when she left, she wouldn't be able to ogle Sandor any more.

 _There are strong hairy alpha males up North,_ she told herself sternly. _The place is riddled with them, in fact. I_ _'ll just find one who's sarcastic and funny and cooks like a master chef, and then everything will be great._

She fell asleep without having convinced herself of that in the least.

Breaking up with Joffrey worked better in theory than in practice. To break up with him, Sansa first had to be in the same room with him, and she didn't know how Sandor, Meryn, and Boros could stand it. Thus a week had passed since that fateful night in the kitchen with Sandor and this agonizing brunch with him, Joffrey, and the other two lackeys.

Now that she'd spent a goodly amount of time with Sandor and experienced first-hand what a man secure in his masculinity and devoid of any major personality disorders was like, Joffrey's lunacy was thrown all the more into relief. Sansa wondered which personality disorder Joffrey _didn_ _'t_ have, because he seemed by turns narcissistic, histrionic, antisocial, paranoid, bipolar, avoidant, _and_ borderline.

"Obsessive-compulsive!" Sansa announced, apropos of nothing, halfway through brunch. She'd spent the entire meal pondering the issue and decided that, if anything, Joffrey was the very opposite of OCD: instead of adhering to rigid habits, the challenge was keeping him from veering erratically from one wildly inappropriate behavior to another.

Conversation around the table ceased abruptly at her pronouncement, and she looked up to where she was torturing her eggs Benedict, instead of eating it, to find everyone had fallen silent, instead just staring at her with varying degrees of confusion on their faces. She noted that Sandor, rather than looking confused, had that little smirk gracing his lips again, like he'd just been waiting for her to do something weird and was amused when it finally came to pass.

Every day of the last week, she'd noticed something new about him. And every new thing she noticed just made it more difficult to reconcile herself to her doomed match with Joffrey. How could she spend the rest of her life with a petulant whiner who sucked in bed when, as if to throw Joffrey's deficits into higher relief, Sandor was there to show her how a real man could be?

How could she bear Joffrey's Axe body spray addiction when Sandor smelled like pine sap and black pepper? How could she endure Joffrey's nasal, shrill prating when Sandor's velvet-rippling-over-marble tones sent shivers up her spine on the regular? How could she ignore the bony jut of Joffrey's skinny body heaving over hers when there was 200+ pounds of prime beef to roll against in a sweaty tangle of sheets?

She found herself fantasizing about Sandor at odd moments, and then not-so-odd moments; the single time Joffrey had been able to bring her to orgasm, she'd been imagining herself with Sandor instead. It had been his lips on hers, his hips between her thighs, his cock moving inside her. She'd come like a meteor cataclysmically ending all life on Earth.

Afterward, Joffrey had complimented her on no longer being a frigid ice queen. He'd even given her his own brand of encouragement, saying that with a little practice, maybe she wouldn't be so terrible in bed.

She sighed at the memory, and made herself focus on the matter at hand.

"Sorry," she said to the other occupants of the table, not sounding sorry at all. She opened her mouth to make some sort of excuse for her strange lapse, but then just shrugged and went back to mauling the eggs Benedict. She didn't owe Joffrey excuses or anything else.

He was grinning at her over his wine glass in a way that presaged the petty cruelty he liked to visit upon her with increasingly regular frequency.

"Won't the voices in your head let you follow the conversation, Sansa?" he drawled.

Before her decision to end her engagement to him, she'd have hastened to apologize convincingly and try to be bright and charming and amusing to smooth over her lapse. But thwarted passion for his grumpy bodyguard and a heightening need to escape from Joffrey's stultifying presence seemed to have had a reckless effect on her.

"It's just that they're so much more interesting than you are," Sansa therefore replied.

Quiet descended as Sansa's gaze flicked over each one of them in turn.

Meryn stopped chewing to gape at her in amazement.

Boros' fork stopped, suspended in mid-air, as he paused in shoveling Western omelet into his piehole.

Joffrey's face purpled as confusion, indignation, and anger warred for dominance in the hollow melon atop his neck.

Sandor looked amused, his lips twitching as he fought to keep from laughing.

The fork clattered from Boros' numb fingers. Sansa shrugged.

"Sorry," she said, not sounding sorry at all, and smeared Hollandaise sauce around the edge of her plate with an artistic flourish. "I'm not very hungry. Guess I'll go… read a magazine. Or something."

She rose and scampered away, leaving three-fourths of the men to sit in silence like a set of stunned haddocks. The last one-quarter of them just watched her go. She could feel Sandor's speculative glance on her skin like a tangible caress.

Safe in her room once more, she curled up on the chaise longue by the window and lost herself in daydreams of escape.


	2. Chapter 2

Peace was not to be hers for long, however, because it was a scant hour before Joffrey was banging on her door. It had taken him that long to assimilate what she'd said to him and formulate an appropriately cutting response. He had a lengthy scream at her, about how she was a disappointment and stupid and boring, and how he could do so much better than her, and how she was the worst lay he'd ever had.

Her reply, Sansa thought upon reflection, not been the smartest thing she'd ever chosen to say.

"I'm the _only_ lay you've ever had," she snapped. "And so far, I'm not impressed."

Well. If she'd thought that saying it would perhaps inspire him to avoid her as a sexual partner, she'd been mistaken. No, Joffrey had chosen that moment to become a determined Don Juan-level lover, declaring his intention to prove to her how fantastic he could be.

"I'll show _you_ ," he'd said. "You won't know what hit you."

He was very much correct in that statement, a quite prescient one, it turned out. Because the next day, when he initiated sex, it was to treat her to an awkward and inept attempt at cunnilingus, during which Sansa felt more embarrassed than any other time in her life, followed by a very sad attempt at rough, hard fucking.

But Joffrey's enthusiastic, rabbit-like thrusts served only to piston him even faster toward climax than usual. With a screech, he became a member of the less-than-illustrious Four Pump Chump Club and collapsed on top of Sansa, panting hard. She slithered out from beneath him, shuddering with disgust as the condom came with her, lacking traction on Joffrey's sadly wilted member.

Sansa showered thoroughly, immensely glad of the three-month birth control shot she'd had before coming to King's Landing, then decided to sublimate her misery in empty calories. When she left the bathroom, Joffrey had gone, to her relief. She rang for a maid to change the sheets, flung open the windows to rid the stuffy air of the scent of stale sex, and departed her room.

Downstairs in the kitchen, she was both thrilled and chagrined to discover Sandor, cooking again. The sight and sound of him- hell, even the pine-and-spice smell of him- highlighted Joffrey's inadequacies so clearly that she plopped herself down on the tiled stairs leading up to the dining room, and burst into tears.

Sandor was startled, to say the least. He'd gotten used to her joining him while he cooked, but usually she just sat quietly and watched him, sometimes sampling his recipes, before returning to her suite of rooms on the fifth floor, overlooking the harbor. She rarely spoke, and had never cried before.

So he turned off the burner, washed his hands, and sat next to her on the stairs, waiting patiently until she calmed down. He didn't even have to speak; he just shot her an inquiring eyebrow which she knew to mean, "spill it".

"It's Joffrey," she said, sniffling. He handed her a paper napkin, then grimaced as she blew her nose.

"What'd the little shit do this time?" As always, his gravel-over-concrete voice had things clenching deep inside her. Usually she enjoyed the futile sexual tension, but that night it just made her feel even worse.

"He's just so bad at sex," she sobbed into the snotty napkin.

Sandor was silent for a long, shocked moment, and then he laughed. Really hard. For a long time. And then said, "If any woman I'd been with ever said that about me, I'd kill myself."

Sansa sniffed. "That's because you're the type of person who takes pride in a job well done. I don't think Joffrey even knows what a job well done _is_ , at least where sex is concerned."

Sandor began laughing again. When he finally settled down, wiping tears from his eyes, Sansa grumbled, "I don't think _I_ even know what a job well done is," and set him off again.

Finally he calmed down enough to say, "Everyone should know what a job well done is like, at least once."

"Who's going to show me, you?" she scoffed. "It won't be Joffrey, that's for sure."

She'd meant to make him laugh again, but when he didn't, she glanced over to find him watching her, dead sober, his eyes serious.

"I could show you," he said. Growled, really.

Sansa _quivered_.

"Pfft," she said, after a pause that was just a little too long. "Like I'd let you. You're all gross, with your muscles and your big rough hands and your hairy… everything." Her eyes flicked down to his groin. "And if you're in proportion, you'd tear me in half."

"Nah," Sandor replied lightly, casual tone at odds with his piercing silver gaze. He looked as serious as a heart attack. "I'm in proportion, alright, but I'd be real careful with you. I'd make you so wet, you'd take me deep without any trouble at all."

Sansa was having trouble: trouble breathing. Heat was zinging through her, starting between her legs and spreading outward. Her insides felt like they were cramping as they did during her period, but instead of hurting, it was like they were _changing_ , making her ready for him.

She leapt to her feet, panting.

"What's wrong?" he asked, but lazily, as if he already knew the answer.

"I'm having a panic attack or something," she gasped. "I'm too hot. I shouldn't be this hot. Something's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong."

 _He was much calmer than he should have been,_ Sansa thought. He would normally be yelling at her by this point, telling her what a neurotic high-strung little bird she was. But instead he was just sitting there on the stairs, leaning back on his elbows, staring at her like some wise Buddha who knew the answer to every mystery in the universe.

"Help me," she whispered. "I don't know what to do."

Sandor shifted forward onto his knees until he was crouched before her, his hands sliding up her legs and taking her skirt with them.

"I've got you, little bird," Sandor said tenderly, pulling her panties to one side. "I've got you."

Those long fingers of his spread her open enough to slide his tongue between her folds. Sansa flung back her head in shock and keened.

"Be quiet," he rasped. "You're going to get us killed."

"I don't care," she gasped. "That feels too good to be quiet. Something that good deserves _recognition_."

"You can award me a gold star later on," he muttered. "But for now, shut up."

Then Sandor plunged his tongue inside her. She just managed to slap a hand over her mouth before she screamed. Her other hand raked through his long hair and she bucked against him so fiercely he was almost dislodged.

"Oh yes that's amazing don't stop," Sansa moaned, capable of no punctuation whatsoever. There was no comparison between Joffrey's tragic attempts of an hour ago, and the Nobel Prize-winning artistry taking place between her legs at that moment.

She came once, then again, and a third climax was on the horizon when Sandor pulled away, sitting back on his heels and looking up at her. His mouth was wet and swollen, his eyes bright as diamonds, and she wanted him fiercely, the two orgasms having done nothing more than whet her lust.

"Hurry," she told him as he stood, "I need you on top of me and inside me and filling me up."

"Floor's dirty," he said, and pressed her against the wall, which wasn't much cleaner. A jingling clatter told her that his belt buckle and pocket of loose change had hit the linoleum along with his jeans. He hoisted her up the wall, holding her there with the pressure of his body, and she wrapped her legs around his waist.

"Hurry," Sansa repeated. "You're not in me yet and you need to be."

"God, you're demanding," he said against her lips, just before he thrust into her, tongue into her mouth, cock into her quim.

She hissed in a breath, shocked at what it felt like to be stretched so open, filled so completely, for the first time. "You said you'd be careful. That didn't feel careful."

"Didn't need to be. You're wet enough to fit a bowling ball into."

"That's disgusting. You're an awful person."

"Yeah, I can tell how much you hate me."

"I do, I hate you. You're awful and I hate you, I hate you, oh god, I hate you… stupid sssexy Ssssandor…"

He stopped thrusting, very abruptly, to stare at her in disbelief. "Sexy? Are you fucking blind? Did you forget about my scars? They're literally an inch from your face."

"Of course I didn't forget them. I just don't notice them all that much anymore."

He snorted in disbelief.

" _Really_ ," she said earnestly. "They're just a part of your being Sandor. It's not like I look at you and think, _oh, there are his scars_ , any more than I think, _oh, there are his silver eyes_. Besides, the rest of you is so sexy, and the scars are just half of your face. That's, like, not even ten percent. Which leaves ninety percent or more of pure hotness. Most men aren't even _fifty_ percent hot, so you're way ahead of the game."

Sandor just stared at her, for so long she thought maybe he'd forgotten they were in the middle of having sex. She wondered if she should feel offended.

"Silver eyes?" he said at last. "Not just gray?"

"Pfft", said Sansa, and wound her arms around his muscle-corded neck. "Nothing about you is 'just' anything."

His response was to kiss her so fiercely she felt branded, marked as his forever. His thrusts plunged to the very heart of her and she closed her mouth over his collarbone to stifle her whimpers of ecstasy. When she came again, she saw the Northern lights behind her closed eyes, her body jerking against his helplessly.

Sandor's climax was a quieter thing, though no less powerful. He sucked in a breath and held it, his hips flying between her thighs. His head fell back, displaying the long tendons that Sansa wanted to run her teeth down, and he slammed in one last time, holding very still while his breath hissed out.

"This was amazing," she mumbled, exhausted. "This was the best thing _ever_. I don't know how I'll ever go back to having sex with Joffrey after this."

"You're not going back to having sex with Joffrey," Sandor growled, "or anyone else, or I'll kill everyone in the world."

"How am I going to keep from doing it? He'll suspect something."

"Tell him you have your period."

"Forever? Even Joffrey's not that stupid."

"Tell him you have some sort of heinous problem with your _muffin_ ," was his reply. "Then tell him you're going to visit a maester specializing in endless periods. We'll use that excuse to get you out of here and back to your family."

"That's a brilliant idea. You're the whole package, aren't you? Handsome, smart… why hasn't some enterprising woman married you by now?"

He shot her yet another look of astonishment.

"I'm picky," he drawled at last. "It had nothing to do with how no other woman before you wanted to look at me for even the ten minutes it took to bang me, let alone for the rest of our lives."

"You keep saying that but it makes no sense," Sansa said airily, "so I'm going to dismiss it as a gross exaggeration."

Sandor just gave her one of those exasperated looks, like she was hopelessly stupid and he had no idea how to cope with it.

"Didn't use a condom," he rasped as withdrew. A rush of hot wetness, as he slipped out, made her moan. Somehow, she wanted him again.

"I can't get enough of you," Sansa told him, very seriously, and reeled him back in with her legs.

"Trying to kill me," he muttered against her lips, but then was claiming her mouth in another searing kiss.

Sansa roamed her hands everywhere she could reach, plucking at his nipples after locating them with a search-and-rescue mission by her fingers through his chest hair. She stroked his shoulders, clasped her hands around his thick neck, scratched her nails over his back while tracing the hills and hollows of the muscles there. Her feet stroked rhythmically across his ass, heels digging into the deep dimples formed by his clenching muscles, and it wasn't long before he was back inside her in a long, luscious slide.

"It feels like a redwood trunk inside me," Sansa said, her voice dreamy. "I can't wait to see it and touch it and suck it— oh!"

Her enthusiasm for his penis was, it seemed, greatly appreciated, if his abruptly brisk pace was any indication. Sandor's face was buried against her throat, under her hair, his mouth open over her skin so he could kiss and lick it.

"This is the best sex ever. I can't imagine any one else ever having sex this good."

"It _is_ good," Sandor agreed, "but you're batshit crazy, and too loud."

"Okay, okay," Sansa moaned, and muffled her future acknowledgment of his talents by biting down on his gaping-open shirt and groaning.

When she came this time, it was different from the other times: instead of lights, there was velvet darkness. She felt like she'd been flung down a dark tunnel, could almost feel the cool damp air as she rushed past. When she surfaced, Sandor was heaving against her, all that anger of his absent for once, his face transformed, suffused with pleasure. His big body wracked against her and his knees buckled for a moment, until he managed to lock them and keep them both upright.

Boneless, she sort of… melted off him, sliding down the wall to the floor. If she'd felt wet before, now after his second spending inside her, she was drenched. Sandor went to his knees, hands braced on the wall to either side of her head.

"That was different than the first time," she informed him breathlessly. "Will it be different every time? I can't wait to see all the other ways it can be."

Sandor stared at her. "Do you mean that?" he demanded after a while. He stood, knees cracking, and tucked himself back in before zipping up his jeans and buttoning his shirt.

Sansa had not been able to get too good a look at his dick, to her chagrin, but told herself there would be many more opportunities in the future.

"Are you crazy?" she asked, and waved a hand in the direction of the dishtowels. He obediently grabbed one, dampened it, and brought it to her. She dabbed and wiped and cleaned herself up, feeling deliciously sensitive and tender. Standing up was like a baby giraffe walking for the first time, all knock-knees and wobbling, but with Sandor's big hands on her waist she managed to steady herself and went to rinse out the dishtowel before tossing it into the laundry chute.

"Of course I mean it," she finished finally. "I'd have to be stupid, now that I know how it can be. And I might be… a little… unusual—"

He snorted. "Batshit crazy," he repeated.

" _Quirky_ ," she said meaningfully, with a warning glance he returned with a roll of the eyes, "but I am not stupid."

She sighed and dropped her head to his chest. They were the perfect heights for each other, because her forehead fit precisely between his sculpted pectorals. It just served as proof— as if more were needed— that they were made for each other.

"I wish we could sleep together," she mumbled into his shirt. "I bet sleeping with you is awesome."

"Dunno," said the object of her affections, his arms coming up hesitantly to wrap around her. "Never did it before."

"I'll be your first?" She pulled back to look up at him, smiling, delighted.

"For a lot of things, I bet," he replied, his tone dry. She thought he might be making fun of her, just a little bit, but was feeling so good she decided to let it pass.

"You should go," Sandor said at last, after a few more moments of just soaking into each other. "Too dangerous to stay too long. It's been a while already."

Reluctantly, she peeled herself away and departed after one last, searing kiss. Sansa wobbled upstairs and managed another, lightning-quick shower before collapsing into bed like a soufflé. She squeezed her thighs together to renew the sensory memory of him inside her and touched her lips where his beard had abraded them.

She felt… hopeful, she realized, for the first time in months. Even if they couldn't get away from Joffrey and the Lannisters, she had Sandor now. She wasn't alone anymore.


	3. Chapter 3

So Sansa did exactly what they had discussed; henceforth, any time Joffrey initiated sex, she informed him that she was in the midst of shark week and unavailable to him. Since he viewed that time of the month as akin to the plague, but worse, he was suitably repelled by her and kept away.

Then she'd go find Sandor and fuck him senseless.

After six weeks of the period excuse, Joffrey whined that he was tired of her not being able to serve even that purpose; she was terrible at everything else, and at the sex too, but at least she could just lay there and let him get off.

"Aw, it's sweet that you're concerned, honey," she'd cooed at him. "I've made an appointment to see a very _special_ maester, in fact, so we can get the problem all cleared up."

"Where?" he demanded. "You'll not leave the city."

"No, no, right here in King's Landing. I've already arranged for Clegane to bring me."

Joffrey snorted, shooting the man in question a look of pleased malice. "Him? Why?"

"I dislike him marginally less than the other two," she sniffed.

"Well, whatever," Joffrey grunted, and that was that.

Soon thereafter, Sandor was escorting her to the Town Car for her 'appointment'.

"You dislike me marginally less, huh," he muttered as he held the door open for her. "I guess that's called 'damning with faint praise'."

"Oh, shush," Sansa told him, and got into the back seat. He slammed the door closed with perhaps a little more force than necessary.

At the first stop light, she scrambled over the partition into the front seat, planting a smooch on his cheek when the action brought her face close to his.

"What was that for?" he said, sounding surly.

Stung, she dropped into the passenger seat and glared at him.

"Oh, affection is out of the question, is it? Is this just an empty sex thing, then?" she snapped. "Sorry it wasn't a blowjob. I can't reach your groin right now; the steering wheel's in the way. Don't worry, you'll get your compensatory sex once we're safely in the North, and then you can fuck off."

Sandor stared at her in disbelief, whether at her rudeness or unprecedented use of obscenity she couldn't tell. He drove in silence for a long while after that, only speaking when it was time to leave the Town Car for the rental car he'd arranged so they'd be harder to track once the Lannisters realized they weren't coming back from the appointment.

They were well into Riverlands territory when he said, "I didn't mean it that way."

"I don't care how you meant it," she lied.

He took a deep breath, clearly reining in his temper, and continued. "Do you actually want it to be more than sex? Or to last even after we get to Winterfell?"

Sansa heaved a deep, temper-reining breath of her own. "You know what? I've changed my mind. Let's find somewhere for you to drop me off. I'll have my family come get me. You're clearly too stupid to be allowed to operate heavy machinery. My life is in danger while you're behind the wheel."

"The fuck's that supposed to mean?" he growled, and despite her anger, Sansa's traitorous libido quivered at the sound.

"Have you really not paid attention to _anything_ I've said the past two months?" Sansa demanded. "When I've told you how handsome and smart and sexy and talented and strong and brave you are? What about when we have sex? And I tell you you're amazing, and the best thing that's ever happened to me? That I _love_ you? Do you think I'm lying?"

"You say a lot of things. Always chirping out the lies you think people want to hear. Why do you think I call you 'little bird'? It's not for your singing voice."

Each word fell like a stone on her heart.

"Why did I tell you those lies, then?" she asked dully, staring out the window as the landscape turned from the fertile farms of the Riverlands to the lowland swamps of the North. "What did I have to gain?"

"Besides the sex?"

"Yeah. Besides the sex."

"Your freedom."

Sansa was silent as she pondered his words, turning them over in her head for a few miles. When she finally realized what he meant, her fury ratcheted up so quickly, and so fiercely, she actually felt dizzy.

"You thought I was fucking you so you'd help me escape?"

Sandor glanced at her, surprised at her crudeness. His lips compressed into a flat line. "If the shoe fits, lace that son of a bitch up and wear it."

"I don't even _have_ that shoe!" she shouted at him. "And if I did, it wouldn't be my size!"

She sat there, steaming-mad, trying to figure out what to do, but the weird shoe metaphor had gotten her all confused and her fight-or-flight instinct was prodding her unmercifully.

"You know what? Just let me out."

"What?"

"Let me out of the car. Pull over there." She pointed at a convenience store whose sign was half dead, the letters only flickering occasionally. "I'll call my family. Robb and Jon will come get me."

"Are you crazy? It'll take at least a day for them to get here."

"What do you care?" Sansa could not have hurt more if he'd punched her in the stomach. She hadn't thought herself a vengeful person, but maybe she just had never been hurt enough to wake in her the need to hurt the other person back. Until now.

"You've been paid in full," she continued. "Six weeks, at least once a day… and I'm worth at least $500 an hour, don't you think? So you've gotten over $20,000 of sex. That should be enough for a day's work."

The car's tires squealed as he yanked the steering wheel to the right, pulling over with such enthusiasm that the car went up on the curb.

"Get out, then," he snarled. They'd passed the convenience store a few blocks back. Here, a Pentoshi restaurant on the corner boasted a fine price for honey-roasted duck.

Sansa pushed the door open and stepped out and began walking down the street toward the restaurant. Honey-roasted duck sounded pretty good, just about then.

She quickly became aware that Sandor was driving slowly alongside her. He lowered the passenger-side window and leaned over.

"Sansa," he said. She ignored him.

"This is ridiculous." She walked faster.

"Get back in the car." She tossed him a cold, disdainful glance and entered the restaurant.

Inside was small and cluttered and hot, smelling of grease. and spices The proprietors were not thrilled about letting her use their phone, but after she reversed the charges and got her father's credit card number and the directive to use it however they wanted, they piped down.

The Stark family, upon hearing her tale of woe, was in an uproar. Ned wanted to book flights for everyone to meet her in Greywater Watch, or drive down to get her, but Sansa was craving some time by herself to process what had happened to her— not just being the Lannisters' captive but also the mess with Sandor— and possibly sulk. For a long time.

So she refused all suggestions, and made one of her own. Reluctantly, with a lot of grumbling, Ned agreed to it, and arranged for a rental car company to drop off a vehicle at the restaurant, so she got her honey-roasted duck to go, thanked the car rental clerk, and got back on the Kingsroad. She stopped at the first motel she found, once again phoned her family to authorize the charges, and fell asleep after gorging on duck and bitterness.

Sansa knew why Sandor thought she was lying. She knew how he'd been scorned by women unless they were getting something from him: money, favors, revenge against an unfaithful husband. But she thought he'd understood that she was not like those women. She thought she'd made her attraction and feelings for him clear. She'd flat-out _told_ him that she was in love with him. How much clearer could she be?

She woke the next morning desperately wishing she'd bought herself a toothbrush somewhere along the way. After checking out of the motel, she beelined for a KingMart and with the scant few stags she had managed to keep from the Lannisters' knowledge, bought a toothbrush and travel-size tube of toothpaste. In the KingMart bathroom, she freshened herself up as best she could, feeling like a refugee and pitying herself grievously.

She drove all that day, and it was late when she finally saw the sign for the Winterfell exit. She breathed a sigh of relief which quickly turned to an inhale of dismay when the car began to sputter and then died. She looked for signs of smoke from the engine, then all over the dashboard, her gaze alighting on the gas gauge and how the needle rested firmly over the E.

"I'm so stupid, I'm so stupid," she chanted at herself, steering the car to the side and coasting to a stop on the grassy verge.

Now what? She'd always been told not to get out of a broken-down car, but she was too far to walk for help, and still had no cell phone. She'd have to take the risk of waving down another driver. She tapped the button for the hazard lights, and with a deep breath, she pushed open the door and stepped out.

That was when a car slowed and pulled up behind her. Sansa squinted, using her hand to shield her eyes from the glare of its headlights, but couldn't see anything. Her heart raced and she stuck the keys between her fingers, tips pointing out, to be used as a weapon if she had to.

The car's door opened, and a man got out.

A very tall and well-built man.

Sandor.

Sansa slumped against her own car in relief, until she remembered that he was a dick and she was angry at him for breaking her heart.

Not really knowing what she was doing, she spun on her heel and began walking away from him. That meant she was just walking aimlessly along the highway, at nearly midnight, in the pitch dark, but whatever.

His footsteps crunched on the gravel behind her as he followed. She considered running, but he'd just catch her eventually anyway, so she just settled for a brisk pace and hoping he'd see her reluctance to speak with him and give up.

It was not long before his big hand wrapped around her upper arm and spun her around to face him. She could not decipher his expression; he looked angry and impatient but also sad, somehow.

Sansa tried to pull her arm away, but his grip was like being shackled by a steel cuff. His hand was so warm, even through her sweater, and so reminiscent of the many times they held each other after making love, and she was so tired, and wanted to be home so badly, that she began to cry.

"Dammit, girl," he rasped, bringing up his other hand to stroke her hair, and then her tear-streaked cheek. "What happened? Did you break down?"

"Ran out of gas," she admitted, albeit grudgingly. With a wet sniffle, she asked, "Why are you here?"

"Been following you ever since you got out of the car," he replied.

"You have?" She pulled back to look him in the face. "Why?"

"Why are you acting so confused? You know I would never let you go off on your own. I'd never let you get hurt."

"You already did," she shot back. "You should have just shot me. It would have hurt less."

"Overdramatic," he grumbled. "I didn't hurt you that mu—"

"You _did_ ," she insisted. "Do you know how bad it feels when the person you're in love with thinks you're a liar? And that you've been using them?"

He was silent for a protracted moment, and when he spoke, there was something in his voice that made her ache. "Yes, little bird, I do."

She frowned, confused. "You told me you've never even had a girlfriend," she said, "so who was that? Some high school crush, or—"

"It's _you_ , you fucking idiot," he forced through gritted teeth. "Why do you think I've been driving behind you for two days? Why do you think I'm arguing with you on the side of the highway in the middle of the night?"

"I have no idea," Sansa told him. "If you thought what was between us was just… a business transaction… then I really don't know, Sandor."

"Alright, that's it," he said, his tone one of aggravation and finality. With the atypical speed that had always surprised her in a man of his size, he had her in his arms again, trapped against his body. He carried her to her dead rental car and sat her on the trunk, then stepped in close.

"Listen to me, okay?" he said, very quietly, right at her ear as his beefy arms contained her. "And stop kicking me, dammit. Just listen."

Sansa went limp. She was tired, and sore, and hungry, and desperately wanted this to be over so she could move forward with in the vale of tears that would be her life from now on, without him.

"It was never a business transaction to me," he told her in a low, controlled voice. "I'm… I'm sorry I misunderstood you."

"You didn't misunderstand me, Sandor," she sighed. "You disbelieved me completely. Thought I was lying the whole time we've been together. When I loved you so much, and—"

"Loved?" he interrupted her, but gently. "You don't, anymore?"

Of course she did. Probably always would. "You're a bastard for doing this to me," she whispered. "Can't you just let it go?"

"No," he said.

"Why not?"

"Because I love you, too."

She went still, unable to believe she she'd heard. "Sandor," she said warningly, "if you don't mean it, I—"

He began to laugh, and when she began to struggle again, just cupped her head in his massive hand and held her still so he could kiss her.

"I'm sorry," he said against her mouth when they drew back for air. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I just… I have trouble believing that anyone could even want me to _touch_ them, let alone _love_ me, let alone _you_ …"

She wiggled her hands free and framed his face, stroking his bearded cheeks. Despite the faintness of the distant street lamp, in his face, Sansa saw a tenderness she'd never dared to hope he'd show her.

"We have to trust each other," she told him, resting her forehead against his. "It won't work, unless we do."

"I know. I'm sorry. I'll try."

"Me, too."

They stayed there, by the highway, in the dark, just holding each other, for a long time.

"My ass is cold," Sandor said eventually.

"Mine fell asleep." She yawned. "Let's go home."

He wrapped his big hands around her waist and helped her effortlessly off the trunk. "You shouldn't have gotten out of your car," he commented.

"I still don't have a phone, and it's the middle of the night. How else was I supposed to get help? I just wanted to get home." Sansa lifted her chin and stared at him mutinously, expecting another tirade about how stupid she was. So she was very surprised when he just pulled her into his arms again.

"You should have stayed in the car and waited until morning, or a cop drove by. You are incredibly brave, and I love you, but if you keep being careless with your safety, we're gonna have a problem. Understand?"

"Nope," she said, snuggling into him. "But we'll have a long time for you to try to explain it to me."

"Not that long," he muttered, disentangling himself and giving her a gentle push toward his car. "You'll drive me crazy way before then."


End file.
